


the immortality of mayflies

by hesselives



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Character Study, Gen, Germanic History, M/M, Military History, Mythological References, Reincarnation, Unrequited Love, War, but also requited love, liberties taken with ancient germanic and norse religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 12:39:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6116749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hesselives/pseuds/hesselives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He will die a thousand deaths, and Reiner will never know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the immortality of mayflies

**Author's Note:**

> for all those who still carry the reibert torch.

_eros harrows my heart_  
_wild gales sweeping desolate mountains_  
_uprooting oaks_

_\- sappho_

+

**teutoburg forest. 9 AD.**

The earth is stained black with smoke and the blood of the dead. The air is heavy with morning fog and the fatigue of battle’s end. Germania survives another day, upon the slaughter of twenty thousand Romans.

But theirs is not the only blood spilled. And Bertholdt rages at the cruelty of the gods who struck down the one he loves most.

He sobs and digs his fingers in Reiner’s cloak, helpless, trying to grasp at him, to feel anything of his warmth, his vigor, his life— but there is only pale skin and cold blood. It smears thick onto his hands, under his fingernails, and his chest constricts until he can’t breathe. He bends to bury his face in Reiner’s unmoving chest, and trembles.

He ignores the clansmen shouting at him, their voices muted and distant.

A hand rests upon his shoulder, and Bertholdt turns sharply to knock it away. But he recognizes the owner’s ring and clenches his jaw, turning his gaze to the ground instead. 

“Chief,” Bertholdt says hoarsely and closes his eyes, tears streaking down his cheeks.

Arminius gazes sadly at them. The young and weary leader of the alliance knows there is nothing he can do to take away the pain. He understands all too well the terrible cost of freedom. 

“Reiner fought unlike any other,” Arminius says quietly. “There is no fiercer soul worthy of Valhalla.”

But his words bring Bertholdt no comfort, and a swell of bitterness and anger rises within him. “The gods have cheated me,” he seethes, “to give me freedom only to take away my heart!”

Arminius looks off into the distance, at the tribes gathering their own dead for burial, and breathes deeply. “We cannot hope to know their will.” He tightens his grip on Bertholdt’s shoulder. “But know that I grieve with you. Rome again will suffer our wrath, and Reiner will be avenged.”

Bertholdt’s throat tightens painfully as he reaches up to cradle Reiner’s face. His voice shakes. “I could kill a hundred thousand Romans, and it would not be enough.”

Arminius nods imperceptibly, then motions to his second-in-command standing silently to the side. “Come, we have much to do.”

Bertholdt doesn’t know why, but the ache within him sharpens unbearably as Arminius leaves. He only just notices the trail of fresh blood behind him, and looks up to see the severed head of Roman commander Varus gripped in Arminius’s steady hand.

His eyes burn as they fix onto Varus’s face, a rictus of terror, and his thoughts turn dark towards vengeance. The bastard’s death was far too kind. Bertholdt wants to drag his wretched soul from the depths of hell, to force him onto his knees and watch in helpless agony as Bertholdt crucifies his loved ones. To make him suffer even a fraction of what Bertholdt feels.

He fists his hands into Reiner’s cloak. “Rome will pay,” he hisses. 

His clansmen murmur in agreement and reach out to take Reiner’s body, but Bertholdt’s heart seizes with fear and he lashes out. “No, leave us!”

They raise their voices and try once more, but Bertholdt bares his teeth like a wounded animal and curls his body over Reiner’s. In the face of his grief, they finally relent and melt away like shadows, leaving him alone in desolate silence.

His rage dissipates as quickly as it came, and Bertholdt sinks down in exhaustion, laying his head on Reiner’s chest, hopelessly seeking a heartbeat that is no longer there.

_Would that we had more time together,_ he says to Reiner, entwining their hands.

The world around him fades from view, as he succumbs to fitful sleep. 

The fog grows heavier.

\--

A valkyrie walks through the forest, footsteps light but purposeful. She is here to bring home the bravest of the slain, the fallen warriors, and many will dine in Valhalla this evening. 

Their souls are bright, calling out to her in adulation. But her pace remains steady — she must first see to one man.

He is not difficult to find, his soul faint and agitated, a shade of the golden spirit he should be. She looks down at his body and finds another curled atop him. Their souls are inseparable, though one is in the realm beyond and the other still earth-bound.

“Ah,” she says in understanding, “I see.”

The cry of a crow breaks through the quiet, and it reverberates like thunder.

“Munin,” she murmurs, as the crow swoops down to perch on her shoulder. She wonders what the All-Father sees in this one, but it is not her place to question. “What is to be done with him?”

_Wake the earth-bound,_ Munin says.

With a contemplative expression, she reaches down to place a hand on Bertholdt, and her touch burns like fire.

\--

He wakes with a gasp, clutching at his arm in pain. 

His eyes snap open but see nothing, blinded by a light too bright and intense to be the sun. He raises a hand to shield it, feeling vulnerable and terrified, laid bare before a force that is powerful beyond reckoning.

He trembles uncontrollably.

The valkyrie observes him. “You do not let him go,” she remarks eventually, “though he is mine to take.”

Bertholdt doesn’t dare to look. “ _Valkyrja_ ,” he breathes out, stunned. “I— I can’t.”

She watches as Reiner’s soul becomes increasingly restless, torn between Bertholdt and the realm beyond.

“You would defy the gods?” she asks mildly, though her gaze is anything but.

“I ask for more time,” he pleads, his hands clenching desperately. “Please, I beg you.”

Munin cocks his head to the side. _Then let him have it._

Her lips press into a thin line. _Tell the All-Father that at the end of it, I will be sure to collect what is owed to me._

_Of course, of course, petulant child,_ Munin cackles.

She refuses to rise to the taunt, instead placidly asking Bertholdt, “Oh?”

“I— I can’t give you my soul; I wasn’t chosen to die in battle,” Bertholdt says, voice shaking. “I don’t have riches or power or royalty. But I have—” he says with pain, “my heart.”

She bends down to peer closer at him. And she can hear his heart beating like wings, pure and strong and willful. The heart of a different kind of warrior.

“Then I shall take it,” she says. “In return, you will have one thousand years.”

Bertholdt startles, unbelieving.

“But,” she continues, eyes flashing, “he will not remember you.”

His heart stutters sharply, and she seizes the moment to plunge her dagger in, staking it as hers. 

He screams in agony, and Munin takes to the sky, thunder rumbling in his wake.

_Tread carefully, little jotun._

\--

The chest beneath his hands rises with a sudden intake of breath, and Bertholdt cries out with the sweetest relief he has ever known.

+

**rome. 410 AD.**

He remains still in the eye of the storm, watching temples fall and silver spill onto the streets. 

The riches of Rome are disgorged with fervor, and its citizens who once stood free now suffer the bruising weight of shackles. Their faces are white with fear. Thick plumes of smoke darken the sky, and the ashes of their emperors are strewn across marble steps, crushed beneath the heels of the Visigoths. 

The turning of the tides is never less than ruthless.

Bertholdt looks on in silence, and feels the centuries-long rage in his heart begin to quell. Though Reiner had been returned to him on that fateful day ages ago, the gods have kept silent ever since and forced him to endure in loneliness over the last several hundred years. He thinks perhaps they finally show kindness by allowing him the devastation of Rome.

His mare nickers impatiently, tossing her mane. He reaches down to pat her neck. “Fear not, my friend. There is still much to take in this vile place.”

He rides towards a basilica in the distance, the clattering of hooves barely heard above the screams and pleas for mercy. They fail to move him.

He halts in front of looming white columns, and nods at his clansmen who already stand guard at the entrance. He is here not for its treasures but for something far more valuable. 

They lead him through vast halls and winding passages until they reach a barred door. Bertholdt gives the signal and they smash through it, hacking viciously. He is met with the pitiful, sobbing visage of the emperor’s sister, and the corner of his mouth turns downward. He cannot abide such weakness, but he will not defy the king’s order to bring her to him.

“The gods punish us for turning away from them,” she wails, tearing at her hair.

Bertholdt remains impassive. “It is not the gods who destroy your city,” he says, tightening his arm braces. “We do.”

\--

He recalls Alaric’s command at the edge of the Salarian Gate.

_Take not their lives but their wealth. Take everything they hold of value to their craven hearts,_ the king had said with fury. _Let them watch their city burn._

He tilts his head upward and says quietly, “You were right after all, Arminius.” 

+

**lower saxony. 782 AD.**

“Fuck Charlemagne.”

Reiner spits on the ground, after hearing the news that one of the bastard’s armies was annihilated in the uplands. He grins victoriously. “Maybe Widukind knows what he’s doing after all, that motherfucker.”

Bertholdt is less sure. “But how long can he keep the rebellion going? Charlemagne will stop at _nothing_ to take our lands and eradicate our gods.”

Reiner shoots him a dark look. “I know. I was there ten years ago, same as you.” 

Worrying his lower lip, Bertholdt turns to look at the wooden cross planted in the center of their city. Evidence of Charlemagne’s iron rule. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of joining him.”

“Better to die on my feet than live on my knees,” Reiner says bitterly. 

The constant ache in Bertholdt’s chest deepens. _Your life is everything to me._ But he’s learned several lifetimes ago that shedding tears accomplishes nothing, and that Reiner will always seek out the scent of battle.

Instead, he replies, “Then I will go with you.”

Immediately, Reiner protests. “Absolutely not! You don’t even know how to wield a spear.” (Bertholdt longs to tell him how wrong he is.) “And—” he hesitates, “I don’t trust anyone else to look after my wife and son.”

Bertholdt refuses to meet his gaze. “I will not be left behind, Reiner.” His tone brooks no argument. 

But of course, Reiner has never listened to him.

“Look,” Reiner says, “Charlemagne already thinks all of Verden has converted to Christianity. You’ll be safe here, and so will my family.”

“Exactly,” Bertholdt agrees. “Your family will be fine.”

Reiner glares at him balefully. “You, as well.”

Bertholdt stares back at him with a carefully neutral expression.

After a stretch of tense silence, Reiner finally relents. “Balls,” he curses. “You stubborn fuck.”

Bertholdt clears his throat to hide a smile.

\--

They are woken in the middle of the night, to the screams of people and the smell of fire.

The Frankish army descends upon them, the wrath of Charlemagne absolute. No one is left alive.

+

**maulbronn monastery. 1519 AD.**

Bertholdt startles, knocking over a pot of ink. Then sighs in frustration as it proceeds to seep through a week’s worth of effort toward redesigning the irrigation conduits. He frowns at the mess. Perhaps he should stick to plowing fields instead of trying his hand at agricultural engineering.

An ink stain blooms on the edge of his sleeve; he stares at it with a growing sense of unease. 

The white robe he wears is like a second skin. Meant to signify devotion and purity of soul, but Bertholdt feels neither in his heart. The robe shields his past and his thoughts, and he hopes the gods forgive him for choosing this. 

He breathes deeply and rests his head in his hands. He is so tired of wielding steel and shedding blood. With every incarnation, he feels less like he was, strength and spirit eroding like the edges of sandstone, leaving behind a weathered face.

A vow of silence, he thinks, is a small price to pay for a measure of peace.

The afternoon sun peeks through the arched windows onto the stone floors of the abbey, as Bertholdt gathers up the few drawings that could be saved. He walks slowly through a long cloister towards the refectory, gazing appreciatively at the vaulted ceilings bathed in light.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Bertholdt is shocked into stillness, the drawings slipping from his arms. A man stands in shadow at the end of the cloister, hand gripping a sword. 

_That voice—_

Bertholdt steps forward, heart thudding frantically in his chest. He trembles as he opens his mouth to speak, but a decade of silence has truly left him without speech. He lets out a low, fractured sound from deep within.

The man stares at Bertholdt without recognition.

“I guess what they say about Cistercians is true,” he remarks, raising an eyebrow. “But I wonder…would God compel you to speak if it would save your monastery?”

If Bertholdt was younger, more naive, without the weight of centuries upon his shoulders, he might be tempted to think that this man is making an offer. But he knows that fate is never so kind, and shakes his head.

The man misinterprets his reaction and huffs out a laugh. “Then it’s just as well.” His smile is unkind. “We’re not here for your faith.”

The sunlight shifts onto the man’s armor, and Bertholdt is faced with the emblem of Sickingen. He feels what little peace he harbors within him turn to ash. The knights of Francis are not known for their benevolence.

Bertholdt sinks to his knees, accepting once more what the gods have wrought upon him.

Sorrow takes his heart as his eyes remain fixed on the man before him, the one he will always love most. Even if he should die by his hand.

The sword is plunged through his chest, and Bertholdt cries out as his soul is torn from his body, flung to the mercy of time.

His blood flows crimson over cold stone and white robes.

+

**ephemeros**

_The mayfly lives for one day, frantic in its urgency, desperate in its frailty. The wind carries it afar, lost in a swarming throng but it struggles onward, ever seeking, because it’s all it knows and all it will ever know._

_It dies exhausted and alone._

+

**silesia. 1741 AD.**

“You should drink.”

Reiner holds out a small leather wineskin, but Bertholdt shakes his head, continuing to blow warm puffs of air into his hands. The winter frost has swept the landscape in its icy grasp, and brought upon a chill that seems to settle permanently into their bones.

“That’s the last of your family’s wine,” he says, idly stamping his boots. “You should keep it.”

Reiner frowns. “We’re neighbors, idiot. Our farms are literally right next to each other. That basically makes us family.”

Bertholdt gives him a withering look. And privately wonders how many lifetimes it would take until he wins an argument for once. (Probably far more than the gods are willing to give.)

“The only thing our families have in common is that they sent us off to the army,” he says dryly, “practically wrapped in a bow.”

“ _For it’s a great honor to serve King Frederick and the Prussian empire_ ,” Reiner intones, rolling his eyes. “What liars. Our parents just wanted the land subsidies.”

Bertholdt smiles wryly. “Well, I can’t say I disagree. It’ll hold them through the winter.”

“I hope they all get frostbite,” Reiner says without any malice. But they are both very much aware of what the subsidies mean to their families, and so had left their homes without protest.

They had taken to the perpetual training and drilling surprisingly well. Perhaps in part due to their ingrained habit of rising early to labor in the fields. (Or so everyone assumes; Bertholdt remains silent and does not refute it.) Several of their fellow urban soldiers had proven particularly ill-suited, and Reiner had cheerfully hazed them until their commander sighed and put a stop to it. To this day, they avoid walking past Reiner’s tent, which he finds endlessly amusing. Bertholdt just finds it terribly childish.

“Reiner,” he says sternly, “focus.” 

Reiner pouts a bit, turning his attention away from frightening the newest recruits. “On what?”

“On potential Austrian troops to the west.”

Covering his face in exasperation, Reiner mutters in reply, “No one is going to attack in the dead of winter. Too fucking cold.”

Bertholdt narrows his eyes. “We _just_ conquered most of Silesia. In December.”

“Ah, our great leader is different.” Reiner handwaves. “He just wants to build the largest army ever and show it off all year round. It’s all rather insane.”

Footsteps crunch in the snow behind them, and for one wild moment Bertholdt thinks it might be King Frederick come to kill them both, but it turns out to be just their replacements for sentry duty.

“Don’t look so glum,” Reiner says to them, clapping them on the shoulders. “I’m sure the Austrians will give you a clean, swift death.”

Their faces turn a bit green, and although he tries, Bertholdt can’t quite muster up the energy to care. Instead, he trudges over to Reiner’s tent, ducks inside, and stretches out tiredly.

“Oi, move over, you lunk.” Reiner nudges him, eventually getting Bertholdt to roll over, before curling up beside him. 

It reminds Bertholdt of their childhood, curling up tiredly together among bales of hay after a long day of harvest. Except they were decidedly more innocent back then.

Reiner reaches over to brush his fingers against Bertholdt’s lips. He looks almost sad, his brash demeanor from before entirely gone now.

“Battles aren’t quite like the ones in stories, are they,” he says softly.

Bertholdt presses his cheek against Reiner’s palm. “No, they aren’t.” He closes his eyes. “There’s nothing good about them at all.”

+

**north sea. 1916 AD.**

Heavy fog rolls over the sea in darkness, waves lashing at the sides of warships. The groaning of steel and deep booms of gunfire echo through the cold northern air. The radio signals are silent, as if the battle fleets are hulking ghosts moving through the shadow of night.

In the belly of the SMS König, Bertholdt huddles by the turret hoist, guarding its massive shells and ammunition. The König is the largest of the German fleet — the only ironclad warship they have. It’s armed with heavy caliber guns capable of destroying smaller ships, but subsequently slow to maneuver. Which is how the crew found itself forced onto the defensive when dusk fell. Now they wait, looming at the edge of the reef, straining to see the nighttime skirmishes between the lighter, faster battlecruisers.

It’s nearly impossible to tell who is striking whom, rendering the sparse bits of news from the upper decks completely useless. Bertholdt clenches his hands in frustration. They’ve already lost nine ships and over two-thousand lives throughout the day; he is not going to let Reiner be added to the count.

He grabs the first person he sees descending with a report in hand, and struggles to keep desperation out of his voice. 

“Leonhardt, any news?”

She shrugs dismissively. “Sunk a few more British cruisers, we think. Hard to tell until morning comes.”

He bites the inside of his cheek. “Any more casualties on our side?”

“I’m not omniscient.” She looks askance at him for a moment. “Are you asking about Braun?”

Bertholdt shifts his gaze. “Yes.” 

“Huh,” she says. “Torpedo boat, right?”

He nods slightly. “The SMS V4, under Lieutenant Arlert.”

“I see,” she says with grudging respect. “Well, he’s not an idiot. I wouldn’t be surprised if they come back alive.”

“Very reassuring,” he mutters.

She gives him a harsh look. “Don’t come to me for assurances.” The report crinkles in her hands. “I already have enough to do.”

Bertholdt crosses his arms and replies evenly, “Don’t we all.”

\--

The light of dawn crests over the horizon, casting the sea in a hazy white. The fog begins to dissipate and the aftermath of the battle slowly appears. Carcasses of hulls and bodies float silently at the surface, the waves gently tossing them together.

Bertholdt reminds himself to breathe, as he grips the iron railing overlooking the water. His eyes are too bright with lack of sleep, and he stares intently at the ships tiredly coming back to shore. He is not going to give up hope just yet.

“—the bow was blown clean off. Must’ve been hit by a submarine—”

One of the radio jammers walks briskly across the deck, relaying transmissions to the captain, and Bertholdt turns to listen attentively, anxious for any information.

“Shame,” the captain says with a hint of remorse. “The V4 was a good ship.”

Against all protocol, Bertholdt runs over and seizes the radio jammer’s arm. “The V4? Are you sure?”

“Hoover, you forget yourself,” the captain says sharply, then notices Bertholdt’s pale countenance. “But yes, the V4 was sunk.” He pauses briefly. “My condolences.”

“Apologies, sir,” Bertholdt says automatically, voice dropping to a whisper. “Won’t happen again.”

He disembarks with the rest of the crew, mind blank and on autopilot. His eyes are dry and his hands are steady, as he gives a comprehensive report on ammunition count. He keeps the grief at bay for now, pulling from years upon years of practice. 

But even so, it never gets easier.

Eventually, he finds himself standing in front of the barracks, staring at the room that he and Reiner share. 

_Used to share._

His chest tightens, and a numbing feeling begins spreading through his body. He can’t bring himself to enter—

The door swings open and Bertholdt startles, barely holding back a shout. 

“Oh, there you are,” the ghost of Reiner says with relief, toweling his hair. “I was wondering where you had gotten off to.”

“I—” Bertholdt says faintly, then shakes his head. “I’ve gone mad.”

Reiner squints at him. “Are you alright? Did you hit your head?”

“The gods have never done this before. You should be in the afterlife, not here,” Bertholdt tells him, blinking slowly.

“Oh, Bertholdt,” Reiner says sympathetically. “You really did hit your head. But don’t worry, I’ll take you to see the doctor.”

“But you’re dead,” Bertholdt says, voice breaking.

“What?” Reiner says, confused. “No, I’m definitely not. Is that what the report says? That I’m dead?” He sighs irritably. “I should probably go correct that before they print the obituaries.”

A lot of things have happened to Bertholdt over the years, but this is certainly the most bizarre. 

“Your ship sank,” he points out, very much off-kilter.

Reiner rubs the back of his neck and grimaces. “Yeah, it did. The bow was blown, so the V2 came to pick us up, then torpedoed our ship to make sure the British can’t get their hands on it.”

Bertholdt remains silent, processing his words, before dropping his head onto Reiner’s shoulder.

“Don’t do that again,” he mumbles, feeling a headache coming on.

Reiner laughs, and Bertholdt thinks it’s the most wonderful sound in the world.

+

**east berlin. 1961 AD.**

The professor’s voice echoes off the walls of the large lecture auditorium, grandly reciting the benefits of industrializing the people’s enterprises, but Bertholdt had stopped taking notes some time ago. Instead, he’s lost in a turmoil of thoughts, painfully aware that nearly half the seats around him are empty.

He fiddles absently with the pin on his chest, a mark of loyalty to the Socialist Unity Party.

When he and Reiner had both been accepted to the prestigious Humboldt University, they had thought the future was theirs for the taking, that they could use education to better their lives. But then the exodus had begun, their classmates whispering of censorship and disappearances, and fleeing in droves across the border to the West.

With each passing day, Bertholdt feels the urge to follow them getting stronger, but some deep part of himself still keeps him rooted, afraid to leave all that is familiar. This is still his home, though it bears a different face now, changed — as everything did after the war.

The bell rings, signaling the end of class, and Bertholdt escapes as quickly as possible, clutching his economics textbook in a white-knuckled grip. The air around him is suddenly too stifling.

He exhales deeply once he reaches open air, and tries to still the anxious beating of his heart.

But a sense of foreboding lies heavy in his chest, like a stone, and he doesn’t know what to do.

\--

“Reiner—” he begins to say nervously, but Reiner holds up a hand and quickly checks the hallway for any eavesdroppers before shutting the door to their dormitory room. 

Then he turns to look at Bertholdt. “I agree with you,” he says quietly. 

Bertholdt stares at him. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

Reiner raises an eyebrow. “If I can’t read you by now, then I’ve been a shitty friend all these years.” He sits tiredly on his bed and braces his elbows on his knees. “You’re miserable, Bertholdt. And so am I. We both know why that is.”

“We would have to leave _everything_ behind,” Bertholdt says, distressed.

Reiner musters a smile, small and sad. “But not each other.” He reaches over to encircle Bertholdt’s wrist. “The world has changed, and we must change with it.”

Bertholdt lowers his gaze and knows without a doubt that wherever Reiner goes, his heart will follow. “You were always stronger than I.”

Reiner shakes his head fondly. “If only you could see yourself the way I do.”

Bertholdt wants to tell him no, that he’s seen too much of himself in centuries past. Dark and ruthless parts of himself, entrenched within, unleashed too many times. Parts that he struggles to lock away from sight and memory. (But they always find him in terrible dreams.)

In the end, he says nothing, and curls his fingers around Reiner’s. 

“When do you leave?” Bertholdt says with quiet determination.

Reiner looks at him in confusion. “You mean when _we_ leave.”

“We can’t leave together,” he says. “It would draw too much attention. You know that border security has increased.”

Reiner frowns but cannot find fault in his argument. “Then you go first and I’ll follow.”

“My father is a member of the central committee.” Bertholdt tightens his grip. “It’ll be better if I follow later, so he doesn’t become suspicious.”

It’s a lie, but one that Bertholdt is willing to play out to ensure that Reiner gets across first.

“You—” Reiner starts, glaring hard at Bertholdt, but eventually decides to drop it with an uneasy sigh. “Then I’ll leave tonight.”

Bertholdt ducks his head to hide his anguish. He keeps his voice steady. “Don’t tell me where you plan on crossing. In case they come and ask me.”

Reiner’s jaw clenches as he bites back a curse. “But you promise to follow as soon as you can?”

“I shouldn’t tell you when, for the same reason,” he says sternly, then softens. “But yes, I promise.”

Pulling Reiner into his arms, Bertholdt holds him tightly, as if to protect him from the terrors of the outside world.

\--

Daybreak has barely begun, but the weak morning clouds already shadow a throng of agitated citizens gathered along the broken cobblestones of Frederick Street. Breathing hard, Bertholdt skids to a halt, having run directly from the university when he heard the news. He tries to frantically filter through the shouts around him.

“—but the chairman said he wouldn’t do this—”

“—no, I have to go see my daughter—!”

“—surely there isn’t going to be another war—”

But Bertholdt can’t make sense of any of them, and pushes his way to the front, where a row of armed guards prevents them from reaching the checkpoint. The color drains from his face, as he sees a bevy of construction tanks digging a long, deep trench.

“No,” he whispers in disbelief.

Bertholdt turns sharply when a woman cries out, sobbing, and watches in dismay as she’s forced back by a soldier threatening to shoot. Her husband, she weeps, is on the other side and no _mauer_ should keep them apart.

_Wall?_

Bertholdt’s heart falters. And he feels it begin to break, as he realizes how badly he’s failed to foresee this.

He shuts his eyes as they sting with tears. The promise of freedom, of a life rich with possibilities, was too much to hope for, and the gods have seen fit to cruelly remind him otherwise.

_I’m sorry, Reiner…_

By the end of the month, the wall ascends, a vast stretch of grey guarded with harsh eyes and teeth of barbed wire. 

He wishes he could tear it down.

+

**aether**

_He is formless, a shade among many in this endless stretch of cold fire. They are the ever-waiting, with no path set before them, no passage of time nor beacon of light. And so they are cast adrift, as if carried by the swells of an unknown wind._

_A voice in a sea of voices says to him, your heart is still mine._

_A voice in a sea of voices says to him, return once more._

+

**beyond shiganshina. year 845.**

Bertholdt shivers in the night air, cursing his soft and weak human form. It is a strange and unsettling feeling, after so many years spent roaming as the Colossus.

“Don’t be nervous,” Reiner says with a grin, reaching over to grip Bertholdt’s shoulder.

“I’m not,” Bertholdt sighs. But he leans into Reiner’s touch anyway, continuing quietly, “The attack itself will be easy. It’s afterward that I’m not sure about.”

They both peer into the dark towards Shiganshina for some time. Then Bertholdt closes his eyes and listens to the wind rustle the tree leaves. He will miss the sound of it.

Reiner shifts closer and wraps his arms around Bertholdt, tucking his chin over his shoulder. 

“I’ll be by your side,” he murmurs. “We’ll get through it together.”

Bertholdt grips Reiner’s hand and exhales, feeling the heavy weight of centuries take hold. They are far from free, but they are together and alive. And Bertholdt would choose this every time.

He turns to face Reiner, looking at him with affection and tracing his features with light touches.

Reiner scrunches his nose. “That tickles.”

Bertholdt darts in to kiss him. “Not so tough now, are you?”

“I’ll show you tough,” Reiner says, wiggling his fingers into Bertholdt’s sides, causing him to collapse in a fit of giggles.

“Unfair!” Bertholdt gasps, trying ineffectually to dodge out of Reiner’s reach.

Reiner smirks. “If only the humans could see us now. We would never be taken seriously. They’d probably kill us on the spot.” 

Immediately, Bertholdt’s face contorts in anger. “Don’t joke about such things.” He feels the familiar surge of fear and struggles to control his form, beads of sweat hissing as they slide down.

“Hey, hey,” Reiner says contritely. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

Bertholdt buries his face in Reiner’s neck, breathing deeply. “I know.” He doesn’t dare to ask for promises, but he sighs out, “Let’s finish this and come back home.”

Reiner presses his mouth to Bertholdt’s forehead, and smiles indulgently. “As if I could forget.”

\--

_There is a tale of the world’s end, he remembers. They call it Ragnarok._

_It is the final battle of gods and humanity. And it is without mercy._

**Author's Note:**

> 1) all of the above are inspired by real historical events, with the obvious exception of shiganshina.  
> 2) [chief arminius](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arminius) of the germanic tribes, and [lieutenant armin](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Order_of_battle_at_Jutland#Torpedo_Boats) of the SMS V4 actually existed! (i like to think isayama chose armin's name for a reason.)  
> 3) i may or may not have binge-watched "vikings" while writing this.


End file.
